The Brunellesci Baby. Daphne Clair
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Dominic home where he belonged. A proper home where he’d be loved for himself, not for what he represented to the future of a business empire. A home where love and understanding were more important than money, and success was measured by the quality of relationships and the satisfaction of a job well done, instead of company dividends. Where he’d be allowed to choose his career, rather than be indoctrinated with the idea that as a Brunellesci he was destined to be swallowed up by the corporate politics of the family’s various holdings. And where he’d never be forced into a role that would stultify him and break his spirit.
Zandro was staring intently at her. ‘A solo mother,’ he said, ‘with…let’s say dubious connections. And have you had a job since you left here?’ he pressed.
‘Yes.’ No need to panic. She didn’t have to answer his questions. Pre-empting the next one, she said, ‘I don’t have a lot of money, but I own a house.’ Her parents had left it mortgage-free on their deaths. Just an ordinary three-bedroom suburban bungalow in Auckland, but a house all the same. An asset. Of course she and Dominic couldn’t stay there—she’d have to sell it—but she wasn’t going to tell Zandro of her long-term plan. ‘I can make a good life for Dominic. I’ll give up everything to make sure of it.’
‘And how long will this altruism last?’
‘It isn’t altruism. It’s love. Maternal instinct.’ Boldly she met his eyes.
He made an acid sound of disbelief.
She ignored it. ‘You could help make the changeover easy for him.’
He finished his coffee in one gulp and put down the cup, then sat back and folded his arms, seemingly thinking. ‘He’s happy here, he has everything he needs, and if you’re the loving mother you’re pretending to be you’ll leave him.’
Her heart gave a brief lurch, and she forced herself to breathe normally and stay silent.
‘I propose that you visit him as many times as you like while you’re here—to satisfy yourself he couldn’t be better off.’
He didn’t begin to understand her compulsion. A mother’s frantic need to rescue a child she felt she’d deserted was only half of it.
He paused. ‘And if it works out, we can talk about visiting rights for the future.’
‘Visits aren’t an adequate substitute for living in the same house.’
Visiting could never equal having Dominic with her, watching him grow from day to day, putting him to bed each night—all the things that went with parenting.
Maybe Zandro had misunderstood. He said, after a pause, ‘I know it’s not the same. You want to move in?’
For a moment she didn’t comprehend what he was suggesting. Then she blinked. ‘You’re inviting me here?’
Almost certainly he was ruing it. His face was stiffly set, the angularity of his features more noticeable. ‘I’d like to reassure you that your son is in the best hands, and send you home with an easy mind.’
No chance—but she didn’t say the words aloud, afraid that he’d retract. Before she’d arrived here she’d told herself that Dominic’s material needs, at the very least, would be met. Even kindness would be arranged for, if not freely given. Yet the image had haunted her of a motherless baby, perhaps alone in some empty room of a huge, cold house.
Zandro had said that his nephew didn’t lack for affection. But, too young to understand though Dominic had been, surely he must have noticed the sudden absence of his mother, felt abandoned, insecure?
‘All right,’ she said. And with an effort, ‘Thank you.’
She wouldn’t be exactly welcome, that much she knew. What would Zandro’s parents make of the astounding invitation? Judging by his father’s attitude, she could expect to be cold-shouldered if not insulted.
But she hadn’t come here to be comfortable. She’d come because Dominic needed her, because this was an obligation she couldn’t refuse.
It seemed she’d surprised Zandro yet again. His hands gripped the arms of his chair before he slowly relaxed them. ‘I’ll ask my mother to have a room prepared for you,’ he said.
She felt a little dazed. Things were moving faster than she’d expected, although he’d promised nothing except that he would not give up Dominic. Did he really believe she would stay for a while, then pronounce herself satisfied with his arrangements for his brother’s child, and tamely leave?
He didn’t, she decided, have much imagination. But she wasn’t about to point out to him that throwing a pining mother into close proximity with her stolen child was unlikely to lead her to abandon it a second time. ‘When shall I come?’
Better strike while the iron was hot, give him no chance to find some excuse to rescind.
He shrugged, though she fancied it cost him some effort to appear so nonchalant. ‘Give me time to…inform my parents that you will be staying—for a while.’
Perhaps she’d imagined the emphasis on the last phrase. He didn’t need to worry. She had no desire to remain in the Brunellesci household for any longer than it took her to persuade them that a mother’s rights took precedence over any others.
She fought another twinge of conscience. By Zandro’s own admission his mother was too old and he was too busy to give Dominic undivided attention. While Domenico apparently took some distant interest in his grandson, no doubt he left practical matters of child care to his wife and the nanny.
No matter what they thought, a paid employee couldn’t give the same unstinting devotion to Dominic she could. He was all she had in the world now.
Grief threatened to overwhelm her and she turned her head, pretending to admire a large oil colour on the wall, a luminous study of a young girl in a white dress, perched on a chair before a window where gauzy curtains floated on an invisible breeze.
It didn’t really help, so she put down the coffee cup she’d emptied and stood up. ‘I’ll go then,’ she said, ‘and pack my things.’ It wouldn’t take long. Not a naturally pushy person, nevertheless she was determined not to let him back out. ‘I hired a car in town… Can I garage it here—or will I need it? I don’t suppose I’ll be going out much.’ And if she did, she could use public transport now there was no need for discreet surveillance.
He said, ‘Return it. I’ll send a car for you tonight.’ And after a slight hesitation, ‘About seven. You may join us for dinner.’
Gracious of him, she thought snidely, but bit back the urge to say it aloud. He probably wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news to his father that someone Domenico had called that woman—and, she suspected, something much worse—was about to invade his home.
She wondered if the old man might veto the idea and countermand his son.
Evidently if there had been objections Zandro had overridden them. The car arrived promptly—one of a fleet that specialised in corporate business, according to the logo on the side.
When they reached the Brunellesci house the driver spoke into the microphone, and in response the gates opened. He drove to the stone steps, where the door was opened by the housekeeper.
As the driver lifted the single suitcase out of the boot and set it on the verandah, Zandro’s deep voice said, ‘I’ll take care of that, Mrs Walker.’
He came forward, flicking a critical glance over their guest, evidently noting that she’d changed into a cool cotton dress worn with wedge-heeled sandals.
His greeting was coldly polite. ‘Good evening, Lia. Mrs Walker will take you upstairs. I’ll bring your case in a few minutes.’ He turned to speak to the driver.
The woman showed her to a large bedroom with embossed creamy-gold wallpaper, dimmed by trees outside that grew taller than the house. A bronze satin spread covered the queen-size bed. The